“Do you not know where San Polo is?” a girl standing next to me asked, giving him a withering look. She was svelte and olive-skinned, dressed in a simple black dress that looked somehow stunning on her. “It is the quarter next to Dorsoduro on this side of the canal. You can walk from the academy, if you don’t get lost. Do you not have a map?”

Her Italian sounded really good, fluid and fluent. I studied her with more than a little envy.

“Yes, but it’s no use,” the American said in Italian. “None of the streets go where you think they will, and they keep changing names.” Actually he said, “Not help me. Street not going where I want and change names.” Or something along those lines. His pronunciation was so bad that it was hard to decipher.

There were nods of agreement from the other students.

“It is a most disorganized city,” a tall, fair boy said. “And dirty, too. I do not think they clean the canals very often.”

“They say the tide takes things away eventually,” the man beside the American said with a Gallic shrug. He was quite attractive, with unruly dark hair, not unlike Leo’s, and wearing an open-necked white shirt. French, I decided, and not as young as the others. But then, not as old as I. None of them were. “I am Gaston. I am from Marseilles. And you are?” He turned to me.

“Juliet. From England,” I said. I did not intend to be Lettie while I was away from home.

“Juliet—such a romantic name.” He gave me a little grin. The name did sound romantic the way he pronounced it, and it reminded me that Leo had called me Julietta.

“I should watch this one,” the other woman said, addressing me. “The French are notorious flirts.” But I saw the look she flashed at him. Also a flirt, I thought.

“I am Imelda Gonzales, from Madrid,” she said. “My family has been living in Biarritz, in France, since the civil war. Such a terrible time. My brother was killed.”

“At least it is now over, and the right side won,” the blonde young man said. “General Franco has restored peace and order to his country.”

“You think so?” Imelda said. “At what cost?”

“But you could not have wanted the communists to have gained control?”

“Perhaps I would,” she said. “My father had to flee because he was a professor at the university and had expressed more . . . democratic views. When it is communist versus fascist, there is no place for middle ground. One has to choose.” She stared hard at the blonde boy. “I suppose you must be from Germany and think that Herr Hitler is wonderful.”

“I am Franz. Franz Halstadt.” The blonde boy clicked his heels and gave a sharp little bow. “But I am from Austria. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“And are you happy that Germany has invaded your country?” Imelda challenged.

“We are all Germans. We are glad the trams now run on schedule,” he said with a little smile. “I do not think that life is very different for the average Austrian.”

“Only for Austrian Jews,” the American said. I was surprised he had understood enough of the conversation to contribute.

“Children, let us not argue in our first meeting,” Gaston said. “Let us be a small League of Nations, yes?”

“Agreed. Good idea. I’m all in favour of that.” The American nodded fiercely.

“And what is your name?” Imelda asked him.

“Henry Dabney. From Boston,” he said, holding out his hand to her before he turned to me. “And really glad to see there’s someone else here who speaks English. My Italian is so bad. I took a crash course, but I’ve forgotten everything I’ve learned.”

“You’ll soon become more fluent when you have to speak the language every day,” I said.

“How is it that you speak it quite well?” Gaston asked. “In my experience, the British are hopeless at languages. Have you lived here before?”

“No, only visited. But I have been studying at home in the hope of returning here.” I paused, feeling them eyeing me with interest. “I had to interrupt my art studies when my father died, so I have been teaching at a girls’ school and was given the chance to spend a year in Europe. So I have taken that chance, even if we do live under the threat of war.”

“Oh, I don’t think war will break out here for a while,” the Frenchman said. “I hear that Mussolini has set his timetable for conquering the Mediterranean. He does not think he will be ready for at least a couple of years.”

“He wants to conquer the Mediterranean?” Henry asked. “A new Roman empire?”

“Exactly,” the Frenchman said. “He thinks the islands should belong to Italy, so he will work his way through them. First Crete, then Cyprus, then Malta. He’d really like Malta, but the British own it and they intend to keep it.” He looked back at me. “But as I say, he needs to build up his supply of armaments first, and train an army that can fight against harder targets than a few Abyssinian tribesmen with no guns.”

The Spanish girl shook her head. “He has been boasting so much about that victory. Have you heard him? ‘Our great success is just the start of capturing the whole African continent.’ He really does have big ideas. And all those poor boys called up into the army. None of them want to fight. What Italian enjoys fighting, eh? Like the French, they enjoy making love more.” And her eyes challenged Gaston again.